


of liabilities love tends to bring

by owilde



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Eames is in a hospital, Fluff, I hope, Love Confessions, M/M, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, also kinda high on pain killers and whatnot, arthur is worried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 17:12:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6479071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I wanted to know if you were all right,” Arthur says like it's a given fact, like it's a <i>normal</i> thing for him to worry about Eames' well being enough to come and see him in <i>France</i>. Eames blinks rapidly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of liabilities love tends to bring

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been under process for, like, a _year_ , because I sort of forgot about it's existence at some point. What're you gonna do, huh? Anyway, I got swept into shipping these two like crazy a few days ago, and so here we are.

”You look like shit,” Arthur states as he steps into the hospital room, arms crossed over his chest and a seemingly neutral expression on his face. Eames says _seemingly_ because he can't really see clearly. He assumes that's because of the concussion.

”You sure know how to make a man swoon, darling,” Eames mumbles in a reply from where he's sitting. Or not really sitting, more like half-lying, propped up against an inexplicable amount of pillows that seem to swallow him whole. Arthur frowns, either at the nickname or Eames' current state, before crossing the room and pulling a chair to sit next to the bed. Eames tries to focus, because it wasn't often that he got to be with Arthur this close, _alone._ But the bleeding in his side makes it a bit hard to concentrate. Arthur eyes him, and if it had been another time and place Eames would've made a cheeky comment about it, but there is nothing leery about Arthur's gaze now. He's analyzing, checking over the bruises that color Eames' body and frowning deeper when he sees the IV attached to his arm.

“I was shot,” Eames offers as an explanation but that only makes Arthur look even more distressed. His eyes find Eames', and Eames might be a tad high from the painkillers but he's pretty sure Arthur looks _worried_.

“What happened?” Arthur asks quietly and yes, that's definitely worry in his voice. Over the disrupted job or over Eames, he doesn't know. Eames hopes it's over him, but he's hoped too much over the past two years when it comes to Arthur. He blinks the blurriness off of his eyes.

“Why are you here?” Eames asks instead of answering, because Arthur shouldn't be in France right now. In fact, last time Eames checked, he'd been running as point man in a job in Washington. Arthur sighs, like Eames asked a stupid question again, but he does that a lot so Eames doesn't feel all that offended.

“I heard that someone got hurt in Marseille,” he begins, “a forger. I dug deeper and found that one of your aliases had checked into a hospital here.” He doesn't seem like he's going to elaborate, but Eames still doesn't understand _why_ Arthur's here. They're acquaintances, colleagues, _maybe_ even friends, but none of those things explain why Arthur would fly from America to France in the middle of a job because Eames got hurt. _He_ would, if Arthur was in his place. But Eames has a soft spot for the other man.

(A soft spot and a two year long infatuation, but he doesn't think about that because harboring those feelings only hurts in the end.)

“It was just a scratch,” Eames says and they both know he's lying. “No need to fly over the Atlantic for that, pet.” Arthur sighs again, moving the chair closer.

“I wanted to know if you were all right,” he says like it's a given fact, like it's a _normal_ thing for him to worry about Eames' well being enough to come and see him in _France_. Eames blinks rapidly. He focuses on Arthur's face, sees the dark patches under his eyes from the lack of sleep and the bruise on his lip from where's he's been biting it. As Arthur leans his elbows on his knees Eames can smell the cigarettes, and Arthur never smokes unless he's under major stress like that one time Cobb fucked up on a job and almost got them all killed.

“You could've just called,” Eames finally offers and the corner of Arthur's lip twitches into something that might be a smile. Which in itself is strange, because Arthur doesn't smile, the least of all at Eames' jokes. He tries to ignore the warm feeling in his chest that the smile causes.

“Would you have picked up?” Arthur counters and Eames almost blurts out ' _of course I would've_ ' because it's _Arthur_ and since when has he ever refused anything from the other man? But he doesn't say that, because Eames-The-Funny-Forger doesn't say things like that. The other Eames, the real one, he would.

Arthur wouldn't want to hear that, though, so Eames pulls a smirk on his face and says instead, “I don't take calls from strange numbers.” Arthur hums, before a silence descents. Eames fixes his eyes on his arm, where a nasty bruise is slowly starting to change color from purple to yellow. Arthur follows his gaze and frowns again.

“You still didn't tell me what happened,” he says and it's a clear and not so subtle cue for Eames to start talking.

“It's nothing, really,” he begins, even though it definitely was something. “I was forging on a job with Malcom and some others, a simple thing. Get in, get his secrets, get out. Nothing too complicated.”

“Which is why you're in a hospital,” Arthur interrupts and Eames does his best to shrug while trying simultaneously not to dislocate his shoulder.

“The guy found out what we were doing, and apparently he had some connections. I woke up in a warehouse with someone screaming at my face, asking about–” He stops, because Eames isn't sure if he wants Arthur to know. He remembers the panic flaring in his chest then, not because the man had been waving a gun at him – that was nothing new – but because he'd asked ' _Where the fuck is Arthur?_ '.

“Asking about what?” Arthur demands and after a few seconds of hesitation Eames continues.

“Asking about you. I don't know why he thought I would be the best source of information, darling, and I said as much but he was pretty adamant about hearing your whereabouts.”

Arthur's eyes narrow and his lips pull into a tight line. “You got out?” He asks and Eames rolls his eyes.

“ _Obviously_ , pet. Wouldn't be here if I didn't, would I?” Arthur doesn't reply, eyes now resting somewhere around Eames' neck.

“I'm sorry,” he says abruptly and it's Eames' time to frown.

“For what?” He asks, because as far as he can recall, Arthur has nothing to apologize for, and anyway, it's usually always Eames who ends up calling Arthur drunk at 3 am to say he's sorry for being an asshole from time to time.

“I thought I was more discreet. I didn't... You got hurt because of me. I apologize.”

Eames heaved himself upwards the best he could, flinching from the flash of pain in his side but ignoring it in favor of Arthur. “What the bloody hell are you talking about? It wasn't your fault,” he says and Eames wonders if he should be concerned about how he'd probably defend Arthur even if he was caught red handed on a murder scene. Actually, now that he thought about it, that wasn't such a terrible image at all.

“I...” Eames has never seen Arthur, the perfect, put-together Arthur, _speechless_. He always has something to say, his brains working in extraordinary ways as the wheels turn around. But they seem to be stuck now, and suddenly Eames is the one who's worried.

“Darling?”

Arthur sighs and closes his eyes. “I'm putting you in danger,” he says and open his eyes again, looking at Eames pointedly. “Because people are starting to notice that I have flaws, too.” Eames has no clue what the hell he's talking about, and briefly wonders if Arthur should be checked for concussion, too.

“I'm not following,” he says out loud and Arthur leans back in his chair, tilting his head so he can look up at the roof. He mumbles something under his breath, which might've been _dense son of a bitch_ , but Eames can't be sure.

“The things is, Eames, that even if you think that I don't care, or that we're not... friends,” he said the last word hesitantly, “You're wrong. I wasn't supposed to ever tell you any of this, because you're insufferable already as it is and I don't need to boost your ego.” Eames raises one brow, because first of all, _what ego_? And also because he still isn't sure where Arthur is going with this.

“I don't even know why I put up with you,” Arthur continues and Eames wonders how this is in any way meant to boost his supposed ego whatsoever. “I mean, at first I despised you.”

At this point Eames feels a bit like intervening, but chooses to stay quiet. He knows this all, already. It's no secret among their circles that the famous point man didn't like Eames the least bit. It's understandable – he's sometimes unprofessional (though he'll never admit it out loud), borderline harasses Arthur, and questions and challenges him every chance he gets. So it's no surprise to hear it from the man himself, and Eames definitely doesn't feel a pang of sadness in his chest. Arthur's voice pulls him from his thoughts.

“... got to know you better. And you're not _that_ insufferable, after all. Sure, you _can_ be, but... But I don't think so, anymore. In fact, I really like you." There's a pause as Arthur takes in a deep breath, looking like he wishes for the earth to swallow him whole. Eames' heart is doing a rhythmic dance around his chest, and he's pretty sure a nurse is soon gonna burst in to check that he's not going to cardiac arrest.

Surely he's not hearing what he thinks he is, right? Eames must be hallucinating this whole situation. He needs to cut on the booze, this is what alcohol and a dangerous job do to you, his mother had always warned him.

"You were never supposed to hear this," Arthur repeats when he eventually continues, "Because things were much simpler when you thought I hated you and I could pretend your actions didn't affect me. But I guess the information got out at some point, and now you might as well hear it from me rather than... someone else."

Definitely a hallucination. Arthur is probably still in Washington, and Eames is just imagining this. Except, right then, Arthur drags his chair forward so that his knees touch the edge of the bed, and brushes a stranded piece of hair away from Eames' face. Which, no matter how ill or high or hurt Eames is, means that this is, indeed, very real. Arthur withdraws his hand, looking sheepish.

"Sorry," he says, and this was now a record number of times Arthur has apologized to Eames during the whole time they'd known each other.

"It's, um. It's fine," Eames replies. "You have nice hands," he adds, because Eames has suddenly forgotten he's supposed to be smooth, suave and _not_ horribly in love with Arthur.

Arthur smiles, an actual, real smile. "For someone who acts for a living, you're not that good with words," he says. "But neither am I, to be fair. I guess what I'm trying to get at with all of this is that I care about you. A lot. And that's why I was apologizing. Because other people are starting to see that you're my... weakness, and use it to their advantage. Like right now."

Eames is, admittedly, _high_. But he's pretty sure even his wildest imagination, while usually coming up with _very_ creative situations involving Arthur, couldn't conjure something like this.

"So, you mean... you mean to say that, what? I'm your pressure point?" Eames rechecks, because these kinds of things just don't happen to him. He quickly glances at his totem from the corner of his eye – it's still red and green with silver linings. He looks back at Arthur, who seems like he's suffering.

"Yes," Arthur confirms. "And I'm truly sorry that my personal feelings have put you at risk."

Eames blinks once, twice. His first thought is _Arthur has personal feelings_?, closely followed by _towards me_? Arthur is staring at him with an apprehensive look, as if waiting for Eames to lash out. As if Eames could ever do that. As if Eames, who's been bloody in love with Arthur for the past two years would ever do anything like that. He tries to say as much, because Eames doubts his drug induced ogling is truly conveying his feelings here.

"Listen, Arthur," he starts and Arthur visibly tenses. Eames feels an unnecessary bouts of pity. "I don't... I don't know how to say this, but if you think your 'personal feelings' have put _me_ at risk, then you should know that that's a two-way street, pet. Because I care about you, too. Your ridiculous ties, and your frowns, and your lack of imagination and your _everything_. Even those truly offensive glasses you sometimes wear. Hell, Arthur, I've been smitten with you for a long time. So if anyone should be apologizing, it's me."

Arthur seems stunned, speechless for the second time in less than ten minutes, and Eames realizes he should start keeping a mental note of all the time's Arthur has been left without words. Finally Arthur reaches for his pocket, pulling out his dice and rolling it on his palm. He hums as it stops with a four on top. Eames lifts his eyebrows.

"Is that a good thing?" He asks, because he can't quite make out Arthur's expression right now.

And then Arthur's face breaks into a wide smile, his dimples showing, and this really isn't doing any good to Eames' poor heart. "Yeah. That's a good thing," Arthur laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. "So what you're saying is that we've been pining over each other for no reason all this time?" He continues, smiling and looking so  _care free_.

Eames is still trying very hard to wrap his mind around all of this. Because in the world where he lives people like _Arthur_ don't care for people like _Eames_. In the end he decides to just roll with it, because that's what Eames _does._ "Well," he says, "I don't know about _pining_. But I do know what we're doing once I get out of here."

Arthur looks at him, now slightly disgusted. "Please don't say what I think you're about to say," he says dryly.

Eames grins widely. "We are going to go buy you a Hawaii shirt."

Arthur looks, if possible, even more horrified by this.

Eames has never been happier.

 


End file.
